What Liberty Lacks
by LifeInABox66
Summary: In which Russia seeks enlightenment from anyone willing to teach him. Amidst riots, reaction and revolution, he struggles for some form of clarity, exploring freedom, socialism and the precarious relationship between the two. 1855-1917.
1. Less Than Liberty

**A/N: OK, this. This is something I have been planning for almost a year – a Russia fic, mapping events from 1855, to 1917, a period which I studied in History AS. It will consist of two chapters – so don't worry, I haven't finished yet! I haven't managed to include everything – in fact, there are many elements which I skipped due to lack of time and exhaustion, but I've tried to give an overview at least of the political mood. Writing this was somewhat cathartic, almost as though I was reliving last year's history course. You know how sometimes you get these powerful, pent-up feelings about a topic – big, emotional hang-ups? Well this is sort of my way of releasing them.**

**Oh, and a disclaimer is probably necessary here, in case I inadvertently offend someone****: some of you may know how I have this rather unfortunate tendency to include lengthy political tracts in my Hetalia writing, right? Well, I feel as though I should probably say now that whilst, yes, I am some flavor of socialist, I am not trying to present the Bolsheviks in a positive light – mostly because, resultant brutal dictatorship under Stalin notwithstanding, I don't hold with authoritarianism. I am incredibly ambivalent towards Lenin, although I'll admit to a degree of fondness for Trotsky. The only ideology expressed here with which I agree wholeheartedly are the views expressed by Bakunin. :) Because Bakunin is awesome. **

**That said, nothing here – besides Tsarism – is presented in an overly negative light, I hope. This is a fic about understanding Russia, not about judging - on my part, at least. I'm writing about a period where, to my mind, nothing had gone incontrovertibly wrong, and there was hope of salvage; that's one of the reasons why I decided to finish where I'm going to finish. **

**Incidentally, writing France from another's perspective was a rather novel experience. It almost felt like and out-of-body experience, I'm so used to writing him as my main protagonist. :)**

** _L'Incorruptible _will be continued soon, for those of you who are interested. In all fairness, I've been planning this for far longer, so it's not **_**quite **_**the egregious procrastination it appears to be. Sort of. Argh. I tend to get sidetracked by various different revolutions. **

**And finally, I feel like I should mention that Tom Stoppard's trilogy of plays, **_**The Coast of Utopia, **_**are the most brilliant sources for understanding the context of events prior to this period. Also, it's crammed with excellent amounts of revolutionary debate, and deliciously sharp banter. So that's my token recommendation. :P**

**Whew. Finally, we can begin! **

* * *

**Less Than Liberty**

_The end may justify the means as long as there is something in turn that justifies the end._

- Leon Trotsky

* * *

1855

When it happens, there are celebrations, spontaneous sparks of events, right there, on the streets – mad, joyous throngs appearing partially on impulse, partially to mark the pinnacle of long, arduous expectation. It is as though the entire country is of one mind, and that one mind is in revelry. Russia wonders – is it right for the death of a Tsar to herald such festivity? To feel so fitting? He does not know, and neither do his people, and he feels as though he might explode from uncontrollable happiness regardless. All night, he shouts, and dances, and sings, and drinks to the health of the _new _Alexander – the man whom they call – who could be, must be – his liberator.

* * *

1858

When Alexander promised liberation for the serfs, Russia thought he knew what freedom meant. It turns out that he misunderstood. Freedom is not, as he thought, a vast, open land of opportunity, filled to the brim with smiling faces, and joined hands, and people _living _rather than struggling to survive or wondering how they ever will. Freedom is not food, and not warmth, and not shelter – and it has very little to do with friendship and love. Freedom tastes acrid, like curdled expectations. Freedom is reparation dues which last decades, and insufficient, overpriced land, and long, harsh winters and high, ruinous taxes that tear and sear and rip at all your hopes until they resemble sawdust. Freedom is being no better off than before – in some cases, considerably worse, with no protection, no means of sustenance - and freedom is the sullen, anguished sort of resignation that has begun to creep onto the faces of his people, like gathering frost.

And there are two parts to freedom, as it turns out. One is declaring it, as Alexander did so blithely in 1856. The other is the process of being given actual solid, concrete, workable _autonomy. _Except that the other is also being told you are a fool to expect miracles, and that these things take time, and one must appease the nobles, and that they are becoming restive at the court, for they are always restive at the court, and that money does not come from nowhere, nor land, nor food, nor love.

If this is liberty, Russia is sick of being liberated. And, for that matter, he is becoming rather fed up with the Tsar Liberator.

* * *

1871

They relax in a little-known cafe in the Rue Saint-Antoine, at a miniscule table outside on the balcony. France sits poised on his chair, one leg crossed daintily over the other, sipping delicately at his glass of red wine. To Russia, it seems to glint in the dying sun; wine has always resembled blood, but in this setting it is like ruby, and for a moment, the beauty of light piercing through liquid entrances him.

"Hmm," hums France, swilling the wine around his mouth and somehow managing to make it look elegant. "Rather nice," he says, referring to the vintage. "Sharp, but fresh. What say you?"

Russia takes a deep gulp from the fragile glass. Pauses. Leaning forward interrogatively, he taps at the glass, saying softly: "You, ah, you said there was _alcohol _in this?"

France dissolves into loud peals of laughter. "I suppose a liquid diet of vodka has a tendency to numb the tongue. A pity." He pats his neighbour's hand across the table – all slender fingers and sudden warmth.

This Nation, now curled catlike in the wicker chair, always makes Russia feel ungainly and gauche – made all the worse for the fact that Russia suspects he could stop, and make him feel perfectly at ease at any moment he chooses. But he never does.

And yet, despite this, they are good friends. Or are becoming so, he thinks.

France draws his knees up to his chest, and, stretching, gives a satisfied yawn. "Such interesting times, no?" he says, glancing down at the crowded street. "Such _momentum. _It is almost a visceral feeling inside me –" gently, he taps his chest, for emphasis "- like some earth-shattering shift within." This phraseology seems to please him, for he tilts his head happily as though expecting approval.

Russia is not entirely sure he grasps his meaning.

"Ah, but surely you feel it too?" says France, in astonishment. "Political waters run deep, and yet I feel a powerful undercurrent dragging me down; it is merciless, and I am helpless in its wake." Suddenly, he shifts forwards, the emotion that his speech apparently provoked having finally induced him to sit properly. Emphatically, he brings a wiry fist down onto the table, eliciting an insistent thud. "Progress, _mon cher! _I have heard its siren before, and once more it has captured me! Surely you must also be in its thrall. You are not long for autocracy, I'd wager; already, that little _zemstva _scheme of yours reveals the first glimmers of democracy. And after all – your people are so _good _at rioting." He takes another smug sip of wine.

Russia blinks. "Lately, they have had reason to."

At present, he would give very much to be as confident as the lithe, sophisticated creature sitting opposite – more a force of nature than man or Nation, it seems. If only Russia could understand what he is saying.

"You merely have to talk to the people around you to gain a sense of this pervasive tension," continues France, merrily. "_Such _promising thinkers! Pillars of subversion; architects of revolution! My dear poet Pottier... courageous Cluseret... Courbet, with his daring concept of no government at all, which I must admit, entrances me as a notion... I even harbour a few of _yours _– Herzen, for instance, exiled from his heartland, and Belinsky, child of literary criticism. Then there is that extraordinary German fellow, highly brilliant once one prevents him from talking about his carbuncles. They all remind me of their predecessors; revolutionaries never change in spirit, even after decades. It is as though they are all possessed by the same – ha – spectre, I suppose. _Zeitgeist, _to borrow from Germany – which I am now allowed to do, for we have a shaky kind of armistice. And thus, I am also possessed, heart and soul."

Russia blinks.

France's grin intensifies. "A spectre is haunting the nations of Europe..." he begins, somehow roguishly. "Or a hobgoblin, as some would have it." He chuckles, presumably at some esoteric little joke.

And again, Russia blinks. He does not understand the allusion – if, indeed, allusion it is. Perhaps France is just stringing words together. Overall, that would make much more sense.

"You have no idea as to what I am referring, do you?" says France, softly – it appears that he has given up. He leans back again – not disappointed, but perhaps a little subdued.

"Help me," says Russia, on impulse. "Let me learn from you." A trickling breeze stirs their hair, and he marvels at how mild it is for February.

"How?" breathes France, all flippancy melting away. His gaze is more intense than anything Russia expected, yet he drums his fingers casually on the table, as though externally unaffected by his own gravity.

"I am fascinated by your ideas."

"You seek to emulate the western model?" smiles France.

"I suppose so. Yes." Truth be told, he is torn – yet everything he sees in Paris delights him in an odd, wistful manner; the sort of impulse which makes him wish to capture the very essence of the city, enclosing all its splendour and imperfections into his sphere. Treasures, he reasons, ought to be shared, and cultures gloriously mixed. Is that what alliances entail? And is that what France means when he talks about undercurrents – or is it something entirely different that Russia cannot yet fathom?

"You have lagged curiously behind for centuries," says France, smirking. Russia bristles; France holds up a conciliatory hand, inviting him to listen further before yielding to anger. "Yet, despite that, you are peculiarly advanced. I think we may have plenty to learn from one another." Russia settles, somewhat apprehensive, but halfway appeased. "In my case – well, you must tarry for a few more weeks. I promise you shall witness that of which I speak. I have a feeling events are about to reach their peak here – and the result will be _devastating_." Really, that word does not merit so satisfied a grin_. "_Me? I bide my time. I exist in a state of chaos and flux, and I wait for my people to make something of it."

Russia follows this, with some confusion. France can be so backward – yet he intrigues him.

In March, what France was describing becomes abundantly clear, as Paris explodes into turmoil. And it is terrifying. And it is glorious. And it is repulsive and compelling all at once. Russia succumbs to a horrified kind of wonder, as he watches the barricades rise. France – oh, he is in his element. He seems to dance through it all, like a deadly spirit, with an inexhaustible passion that is no longer anything remotely benign. He is a creature of sedition, and revels in upheaval.

Tsar Alexander panics, and sends for his country. Russia departs with the blaze of red flags still burning across his vision.

* * *

1872

"Liberty without socialism is privilege, injustice; socialism without liberty is slavery, brutality."

"Yes, but what does that _mean?"_

"It means that, in order for society to flourish, there must be both freedom and equality. The absence of one is to the detriment of the other."

Russia looks up, slowly, into Bakunin's friendly, expansive face, and thinks he might just comprehend. "And that is where I was going wrong?" he asks, tentatively.

"My dear Nation," says Bakunin, sadly. "You have neither liberty, nor socialism. But fear not. Your time is approaching – that I know."

"No – no, the serfs!" bursts out Russia, breathlessly. "They were given... liberty, on paper. But there was no socialism, and so they are not truly free. They have no way of living, whilst others have everything they need, and more. And that is not freedom, but _liberty_ alone will not solve it."

Bakunin claps his hands, the picture of childish delight. "Yes, you are _right," _he says. "I knew it. I knew that, despite what the Tsar and his supporters try to quell, the country itself recoils – and reasons!"

Russia thinks that here, at last, might be the person to educate him – to clear up the tangle of ideas, and dilemmas, and conflicting notions in his weary mind. "I'm sick of it – sick of people being unhappy. Tell me what to do. How to make things _better."_

Bakunin looks upwards, just a fraction, and Russia wonders at how animated, how _alive _he seems – his very movement is like darting flames, like the fires of 1871... And this, despite seven years in the Peter and Paul Fortress, the mere thought of which can cause Russia to tremble uncontrollably. Yet here, and now, at a bench in a teeming square in Saint-Imier, Switzerland, he feels fearless, ready to face anything, if necessary, for he has always been brave – but on orders, always on orders.

"Reject all authority," answers Bakunin, simply. "Live by the deed. Reject the notion that anyone, anyone at all, has the power to command another – and reject the idea that anyone has the judgement or right to declare themselves more deserving than another. Embrace humanity. Embrace total liberty, and total equality – only then can humanity flourish. All laws are arbitrary. What are they? Living, breathing, solid entities? Swift, fanged monsters, ready to tear you to pieces the minute you disobey? No, they are immaterial, meaningless constructions, built solely for the convenience of the ruling class. That they might make a few amendments along the way, diminish a few injustices whilst leaving others all the more firmly rooted, is purely incidental."

Russia blinks, struck with the vague urge to cry. "But what can I _depend _on?" Trapped without anyone to learn from, he would freefall in limbo. He lacks the height, or the power, or the arm span to reach out and grasp this, fragile, beautiful, terrifying idea. And yet he yearns for someone to unravel these knots in his mind, and in his laws, and in his throat, for he really is about to sob for the futility of it all.

* * *

1874

They were brave, so brave, those young people. So beautiful, and perfect in their rough imperfection. And so incredibly naive – or no, not that, but _hopeful, _with wild, grand hopes that did not matter in the end, for now the majority have been arrested, or killed – or have fled into hiding. Their attempt to '_go to the people' _was a failure, and with that odd, fragmented duality which characterises Nations, Russia can see why, and can even summon up the requisite blaze of fury at the notion of abolishing Tsarism. In spite of it all, he loves Alexander – loves them _all, _cannot see why they cannot love each other.

If a Tsar is meant to love his people, where do the special police force factor? Where do the hangings? The censorship, the brutality? Why do simple statements never _cohere _like they are supposed to? Something sinister and ungovernable always lurks behind the mask of logic.

* * *

1881

_There are two claps of thunder, and an almighty shudder. And silence. _

And then that silence is broken.

Screams of the culprits, who are apprehended within moments.

"Please," murmurs Russia through the fog. "Don't kill them. No more executions..."

But the trials are held, and the verdict is inevitable, for Alexander is dead, killed in the blast, as planned.

Russia wonders if this is revolution, and braces himself for its impact, but it is not at all, for in the next few heady days a new Tsar comes prematurely to the throne.

* * *

1893

Another Alexander, but, like in a folk tale, as different from his father as night from day. As staunch autocrat from timid monarch. As arch-conservative from semi-liberal. The sparkling plans for a new democratic assembly are shattered, and Russia is plunged once more into the dark.

Here in the dark, he begins to sound out others who are just as trapped and bereft as he. In the night, he goes underground, and finds networks, societies – rebels. He realises that France is right, for people who exist in flux will always make something of the chaos. _Here _are his people. And _here _are his tigers, his firebrands, his bearish, lightening-swift revolutionaries.

Surrounding them are boundaries, repression – and danger, real danger, the prospect of capture by the dreaded Okhrana, of a show trial ending in the inevitable sentence of death. Yet they have the strength to manoeuvre in the dark. The dark, or other gentler countries, that is.

But many of them tell him no, the western model is not for him. No, they will bypass capitalism and bourgeois democracy altogether. Russia treads a different path to others, thornier, yet shorter. Russia has not yet squandered its chance.

Russia does not think he has much of a chance, at present – he can hardly speak without being stifled by some pedantic censor or other – but he does wonder if it is true, and if he is different. France was disappointing. The Commune fell shortly after it began, all the fire, the fighting and the intoxication spent – and now he seems pacified, and speaks no more of the radiant spirit which possesses him.

Different. Russia will be different.

For now, he bides his time, and listens to interminable talk of treaties, and policy, and economic expansion. And Witte. Good God, that man is obsessed with railways.

* * *

1900

Alexander is long dead, perhaps prematurely consumed by his own ire. Nicholas now reigns. It is silly, but sometimes Russia can barely notice the difference. Sometimes, however, he finds himself disgusted at the _weakness_ of his new Tsar (although, of course, he loves him). Who was it that said the most influential man in Russia was the person Nicholas had talked to last? Whoever it was, they were not far from the truth.

Nonetheless. Nicholas, unlike his father, has moments in which he is almost gentle.

Other times – Russia finds himself wincing, averting his eyes from the latest atrocity committed in the name of the monarchy. Policy is little better than a game of roulette.

"We must russify the Empire," Nicholas tells him, now stern and uncompromising. "They shall be made to accept the supremacy of the Russian culture – if necessary, by force. The use of all languages save Russian shall be suppressed. As a Great Power, we must keep our property in line. Don't look so miserable; this is for your own benefit. All of them – Belarus, Lithuania, Latvia, _Poland, _and the rest shall be remodelled in your image. They shall celebrate you, and they shall become like you."

_Why should they become like me? Even I'm not sure if I want to be like me. _Nonetheless, Russia acquiesces. Strong countries must look after their Empires, after all – particularly when they will not behave. And Russia must try hard to become strong.

Even if Lithuania shudders, and Poland fights, and Latvia cries. Soon, they will all be happy, for they will all be strong. It is not what Bakunin was saying at all, but who says Bakunin is right?

* * *

1902

They call this the Year of the Red Cockerel as an allusion to the leaping flames that seem omnipresent. Famine has induced the peasantry to riot, as it so frequently does; their anger is palpable to Russia, coursing through him like some empowering form of intoxication. He wants people to be happy – oh, he always wants that – but right now, he also wants to smash, tear and burn his way through the homes of every landlord, every nobleman, every government official or policeman in the land. Perversely, he thinks of Bakunin and his kindly face: _the passion for destruction is also a creative passion. _

* * *

1903

He is in London, at the Second Ordinary Congress of the RSDLP and oh, it gives him a headache. They had started in Belgium, but Belgium became very angry and began doing things like yelling at them and trying to arrest the members, so they cancelled the first meeting and regrouped. England simply rolled his eyes and told him come right on in; there are plenty of your lot here already and a few more won't turn me red.

Marxism. Russia has few memories of Marx, besides a few noncommittal glances across the room at International Congresses of various resistance groups, and a handful of caustic mentions from Bakunin. (There must be some irony in the fact that Russia is possibly the one of his nationality with unrestricted freedom of movement; rulers have long since learned that they can control people and land, but no matter what else they are capable of, they cannot command the comings and goings of their Nations.) Marxism – a compelling theory, one which fascinates Russia all the more for its aura of the illicit, for those forbidden key phrases: _alienation, workers unite, equality, common ownership of the means of production... _Far more stirring than the dull truisms exchanged at court between Nicholas and his clique of economic 'modernisers'. Far more enticing than the prospect of becoming yet another capitalist nation, a replica of Britain, or Germany, or America. Or France, for that matter – much as he likes to toy with fire and dabble in occasional flashes of rage and subversion.

At present, Russian Marxism boils down to an almighty ideological clash between Lenin and Martov. How these people can talk! Such discussions – lofty and intelligent, and petty and absurd all at once. How they can shine, and how they can snipe at one another! Yet this is serious, because this is about aims. Lenin says that Russia is different, and Marxism must be adapted to suit his uniqueness. Lenin says that Russia needs no bourgeois revolution; it can occur simultaneously with a proletarian revolution. But Lenin also says that, in order for that to happen, the party must be more tightly organised – whittled down to a vanguard of only the most dedicated professional revolutionaries, whose job it will be to lead the proletariat.

Martov says that Lenin is subverting the key tenets of Marxism, and Lenin rolls his eyes. Martov asks Lenin if he is aspiring to dictatorship.

It all gets messier from thereon in.

Russia watches as the conference splinters before his eyes. Splinters into Bolsheviks and Mensheviks. Majority and minority, although ironically, there are fewer followers of Lenin than there are comrades of Martov.

At the end of the meeting, Russia catches Lenin clumsily by the sleeve, and asks if they can talk.

So they talk. Russia unveils all of his doubts, illustrating every one of his reservations, as Lenin listens with deep interest, occasionally nodding, or supplying a word of agreement or occasionally even dissent. He lets Russia unburden his fears for what must be hours.

It all comes down to this:

"I want people to be happy. I don't think ambition should be more important than that. I want people to have what they need. I don't see why privilege or reward should be more important than _that. _I want everyone to be equal, because I don't think it is right to say that one person deserves better than another, whoever they are or whatever they've done."

"Very well."

"What's more – I don't understand why people like to think they are better than others! And the idea that happiness ought to be at the expense of those further down the scale... it makes no sense!"

"Yes."

"Most of all, I am tired of saying all these things and being told that it is all very well, but we must be practical, because the system won't allow for it."

"Mm. And?"

"And, I don't see why the system should take priority over ideas that are good, and right!"

"Yes. And so?"

"And so why can't it be the system that goes, rather than the ideas?"

"_Yes_," nods Lenin, satisfied. "You have hit the nail on the head, so to speak."

"So that's it. Don't reject the ideas – reject the system that won't support them."

"It is the only way."

Russia knows that nothing he has said even touches upon the disputes during the conference. He does not think he is ready to commit to one side or the other; he does not even understand half of the arguments. Yet Lenin said he was special. Everyone says he is special, although they do not always say it as though it is a good thing. Still. Russia wonders if he has finally found his teacher.

He never mentioned that he wanted to be strong, however – which he does. He wants to be strong for the sake of his people. Perhaps Nicholas is good for that, if nothing else.

Yet the fervour which this experience inspired fades after a few, disappointing days. It is as though, once more, he is shrouded by a protective, obfuscating screen. Once more, he resolves to stop worrying and obey. It really is not all that bad – and Lenin, though fascinating, is not for him.


	2. Education in Equality

A/N: And, heeeeeere it is! Oh, the first section was _painful _to write. From then on, though, it was scarily easy. I tend to like writing about revolution. I don't suppose anybody's noticed that...? XD

* * *

_If you took the most ardent revolutionary, vested him in absolute power, within a year he would be worse than the Tsar himself._

– Mikhail Bakunin

* * *

**Education in Equality**

January, 1905

Events have reached breaking point, and Russia feels broken already – snapped in two, and splintering.

"Everyone says it's my fault." Because that is the truth, is it not? Everyone blames him, even when he _tries. _He tries to listen to Nicholas, and follow his commands. He tries to lend an ear to the radicals, who overwhelm him with their beautiful visions, and cloud his sight with far-flung dreams. He even listens to the moderates, and the liberals, taking a seat at their dull banquets and listening to them explain how they are risking what they can, and that someday they will reason with the Tsar. "My fault. I've endured it for centuries." The enormity of that struggle hits him like an avalanche, and he feels as though he is reliving past hardships which, at the time, barely registered. So _this _is revolution? It is not like in France. In France, it felt like a particularly thrilling theatre piece, designed for the entertainment and amazement of all. Here, it is real, and it _hurts. _"Why can't everyone just get along nicely with each other...?" Because that is the root of the matter, right? That is the _aim._

"_Bring us the Tsar! This Nation has gone mad!"_

" _We want freedom! Living wages!"_

He understands; oh, God, he _understands_. Teardrops scald his cheeks.

"R-Russia?" Snow drifts through the window, along with tendrils of icy air. Oh, Lithuania. The cold has chafed at his cheeks, tinting them a soft pink. Like bruises. Russia wants to stroke that smooth skin, enfold him in his arms, bring warmth to both their frozen bodies, and maybe forge some fragile form of comfort, too. But that would mean tearing himself away from the mob behind the open window, and he is too terrified and transfixed to do so.

"_Stop the war!"_

It was Japan's fault, not his.

"_Wages!"_

Money is becoming the ruin of him.

"_Freedom!"_

Freedom without socialism is privilege, injustice.

"_We'll destroy this nation!"_

But he must do his duty.

"Hey, Lithuania," he murmurs, reluctantly turning to face him fully. "We don't want children who can't play nice, right?" And he smiles, trying to reassure him that it is all right, and things happen for a purpose, and he will protect him and everyone else.

Revolutionaries are not supposed to be so cruel. They are not supposed to be so real. Click of the rifle. Batter of gunshots.

They had a _petition. _They were singing _songs. _They pledged obedience to the _Tsar._

_Ohgodohgodohgod._

It was a peaceful demonstration, and he and the soldiers shot at them.

Curdled taste in the back of his throat. Surely he is going to throw up.

By all rights, he should have been _with _them.

He shot at his own people.

_WhathaveIohgod_

Next time, he _will _be with them.

Oh God.

Nicholas should have _been_ there_. _He ought to have _listened. _Tsars are supposed to love their people. His little father has betrayed him.

He has betrayed his own people.

Nations are supposed to...

... What are Nations supposed to do? Be strong. Make people happy.

Why do such simple phrases always turn and attack him? Why do they haunt him?

That day, he shot five, maybe ten times, before he found he could shoot no more. His hands were trembling too violently, and his vision blurred too painfully, and his mind was yelling too loudly for him to think. He tossed the useless weapon to the side and listened to the clattering crunch as it hit the floor. Queasily, he staggered away and lost himself in the crowd, allowing the people, his people, to surge around him – screaming, crying, wrenching out choked half-phrases of defiance and pleas as the soldiers fired mercilessly upon them. He hid himself in the sound, and the chaos, and the impenetrable shroud of his own shame.

He shot five, maybe ten of his people.

Now, he sits aching on the side of the bed, stripped to his waist and shivering, whilst Lithuania binds the gashes he scarcely registered receiving. They sting now, but not too badly, and Lithuania's fingers are light, and delicate, and ever so slightly warm, like France's.

Downstairs, he can hear muffled shrieks. Lithuania did not mention anything – simply motioned mutely for Russia to sit, and rest, and Russia complied – but it is obvious that Poland and Finland and Latvia are rebelling. His soldiers, faithful as ever, are dealing with the situation in the way they have been taught.

He wishes the _noises _would go away. But even during the intermittent bursts of silence, the screams of his people resound relentlessly in his ears. He is battered insanely by remorse, assaulted by his thoughts.

The whole country is rebelling, or so it seems. Nicholas clutches madly at the last strands of reconciliation, promising a legislative assembly, promising _anything _so long as the people are pacified. Though, admittedly, it took much persuading to induce him to take any action whatsoever. So far, the strikes continue; Russia wishes for the strength and the clear conscience to join them, but he knows it is impossible for he is not on their side, as much as he wishes he could be. Not now.

He imagines tugging at Lenin's sleeve, asking if they can talk again. "I shot five, maybe ten, of my people," he tells him, and Lenin's whole face crumples. Martov looks anguished. Bakunin stares at him, balefully. Marx, scribbling furiously at a rickety desk, barely spares him a glance.

* * *

October, 1905-1908

Nicholas does what he can to salvage the monarchy. At the bidding of Witte, the railway man, with unbelievable reluctance, he releases the October Manifesto. A National Assembly, the Duma, is to be elected. _Elections! _Despite himself, Russia cannot contain a small thrill of excitement. So there is to be democracy, then. It is so strange. So alien.

Except not fully - for it is to be merely consultative, with no genuine law-making powers.

Oh.

Russia had been expecting... something more. After all the trauma and sacrifice, he feels they _deserve _more.

"Lenin will not be happy," he notes, softly, to himself.

Lithuania stares at him, quizzically.

He has spent the last few weeks in and out of bed, but never outside his room, closeted inside, wrapped in protective sheets. Trying so hard to blot out the noise, and the screams, and the guilt. Failing, for the most part; this is the sort of noise that one cannot stifle. Much like revolution itself.

The strikes have continued, against all odds. All of St. Petersburg has come to a boil, and shows no sign of cooling – it steams, and surges, and vents, in a thrill of desperate catharsis. Workers in the city are relentlessly persisting in strike action; every day, Russia hears them outside his window, and presses his face against the freezing glass to snatch a glimpse of their faces. They have formed their own organisation: the St. Petersburg Soviet. _Soviet. _The word slips off his tongue, sibilant and swift. They are led by Leon Trotsky – a turbulent, irrepressible lightening spark of a man, who can craft words to make lyrical music, and shape actions to make valiant statements.

Yet all things must come to an end, and all things must fall, and the rebellion ebbs away gradually like tepid water down a drain. They have no choice but to creep resignedly back to their homes, as the Tsar's conciliatory measures sink in and stick. Opposition, once united, crumbles to pieces.

A frisson of anticipation infects all of the liberals; murmurs of reform, no longer illusory, haunt their gatherings. Those further to the right are perfectly contented, and somewhat relieved that the unruly crowds have dissipated, whereas the more radical amongst them are somewhat more ambivalent – and yet, still thankful for Nicholas' intervention. Russia can understand their fear, but not their hostility – why oh why cannot people cooperate, wealth and status notwithstanding?

_Abolish wealth and status; abolish the problem, _whispers Bakunin-Lenin-Trotsky-Marx somewhere towards the back of his skull.

In the following weeks, he returns to Lenin and Trotsky and their followers – and also to the Mensheviks; both organisations welcome him, as he attempts to mediate between the two. He does not tell them he shot five, maybe ten, of his people. They do not need to know. He has killed before, in war, and during rebellions. He focuses on the aim of never having to kill again.

Nicholas has lost him. He is done with little fathers, and railways, and foreign investment, and rebellions that are brutally quashed. He is done with rifles that snap and destroy, and monarchs who rule and oppress.

The revolutionaries have won him. Formally, they may not display their prize – but he knows well where his heart lies.

No. No, he does not know. He is barely aware of left and right, up and down – let alone revision and revolution. Battered by storm, he comes to rest, weak and disorientated, with the vague notion that the opportunity for some tremendous upheaval has passed him by.

And the years seem to mingle into one, frenzied blur.

The Marxists refuse to participate in the Duma the first time round, but Nicholas becomes angry because it is filled with reformists nonetheless, and dissolves the assembly. In the next elections, they change their minds and put up candidates, which makes Nicholas even angrier, for it is chaos.

Lenin is forced to flee the country in 1907. Russia feels a twinge of reproach – why do people insist on _leaving _him? They are always so anxious to fly away; as they desert him, he is left grounded and lonely.

The third time delegates are sent to the Duma, a handful of years since the Manifesto, not so many radicals are elected. Russia finds this strange. He does not know why the sudden shift has occurred, for the political mood feels no different, and his _own_ mood hums with a madcap sense of rebelliousness.

He asks Trotsky about this, who laughs wryly. Upon seeing Russia's perplexed face, he softens, and asks him apologetically if he genuinely expected the Tsar to play fair.

"People ought to play fair," insists Russia.

"Monarchs never do. Particularly where electoral systems are involved."

So Nicholas cheats. Tsars should not cheat. "Why do people let him? Why does he get away with it?"

"He won't," promises Trotsky, seriously. "Remember what it was like in January, 1905? Vladimir calls it the dress rehearsal. He is correct; next time, in the place of limited fireworks, there will be uncontainable explosions. The blast will be damaging, not decorative."

Russia winces at the thought of explosions (although somewhere, deep within him, a hysterical voice rejoices) yet he chides himself, remembering that it is necessary. The system will not support a world where people are happy, where there is fairness, and love. The system must be abolished.

* * *

1914

Something interferes – a gust of wind toppling a fragile house of cards.

The careful European power structure collapses, and out of the dust rises war. It is tortuous, crippling – unlike any conflict Russia has ever partaken in, made all the worse by the knowledge in the foreboding pit of his stomach that he is not prepared for this, cannot hope to last.

It is ludicrous, and shocking, but Germany and Prussia _frighten _him. They push painfully past his defences, exploiting all the gaps in his clumsy plans. He closes his eyes, and breathes, and imagines his allies are close by: England holding one hand; France grasping the other. Warm fingers. He remembers warmth. But it is all illusion, for he is isolated on the eastern front, and this war is unimaginable and terrifying.

Nicholas departs for the frontlines, taking on the role of Commander in Chief. Russia, for the moment, is left weak and dizzy at home, with the stern-faced Tsarina, and that awful Rasputin who plagues him like some sinister _koschei. _

Oh, would that he were strong! But he feels his resolve sapping day after day – and hatred of rulers ferments in his blood.

* * *

February, 1917

It begins like this. Mutiny on the battleship _Potemkin. _Russia hears this news second-hand, from Petrograd – no longer St. Petersburg, a name with German origins, and frankly Russia is grateful to be free from the reminder – where he waits, motionless and tense, for further knowledge.

Lithuania is practically petrified; he may as well be a statue. Carefully, Russia reaches for his hand, teasing out his stiff fingers and curling them around his own. He can feel the veins pulsing rapidly in the gap between his forefinger and thumb. It reminds him of gunshots, one after another, drumming incessantly at his palm.

Trotsky was correct, for Petrograd explodes. Strikes and demonstrations abound; the streets are thronged with people shrieking for an end to the war, for bread, for land, for freedom. Some cry out for socialism. Many simply long for peace. At any rate, the accumulated frustration billows over the city, reaching the eyes and ears of all its inhabitants; all voices seem to combine in a colossal chorus of anger: _down with the Tsar!_

Russia can no longer deliberate or reason; his faculties seem to have been swept away along with all order, all structure, all convention. Nothing exists save the people on the streets, and he joins them, his high voice mingling sonorously with the rest, loud and insistent. He no longer hides in the teeming crowd as an intruding pinpoint of treachery – no, he has been subsumed by it, at one with his beautiful people...

In a moment of blind panic, it appears that the troops, summoned hastily to the capital, will open fire –

- But they refuse. One by one, they dismount; some accept red ribbons, or flowers, to show that they have chosen their side. All over, there are splashes of deepest crimson – on banners, placards, ribbons and cockades. The authorities – those that remain – are rendered powerless by the sheer scope of the riots. Finally, Russia is in the midst of it all – an observer or antagonist no longer, simply a participant, as passionate and daring as the rest of them. It seems that all the people in Russia have been condensed to this mass on the streets; there is no life outside this setting – all external scenes are irrelevant, superfluous, nonexistent. All that retains any meaning is here, here in the living, beating pulse of the city which echoes throughout the entire Empire.

Nicholas returns to his country, only to find that the striking railway workers will not allow his train to pass. It seems an emblem of the shift in power. Eventually, he is escorted to the city, where the shock waves of revolution – yes, _this _– continue to resound.

Russia is hazy on what then transpires – as are they all, for they are desperate to get word, but cut off from any source of information. Yet the upshot is as clear-cut as it could be: Nicholas Romanov has abdicated, and his brother has refused to ascend the throne. Russia is without a ruler, without a structure; with a sense of elation, he feels the shackles, coiled within him for centuries, shatter.

* * *

April

And there is such an overwhelming sense of _release. _Pent-up anguish, tightly suppressed panic – rage which has been reigned in for decades... all have dispersed in this sweep of creative destruction.

The Petrograd Soviet, re-established and flourishing once more under socialist control, forms a shaky alliance with the Duma, now referred to as the Provisional Government. A shiver of apprehension runs down Russia's spine every time he hears the word _provisional _– so temporary, unstable – yet he relishes in this new, indisputable freedom, as though he has been granted the gift of flight. With barely a few false starts – the crash-landing of 1905 – he has taught himself to soar. Been _taught _how to soar, that is; every shift in ideology has been prompted by his people, who guide him like some benevolent, invisible hand.

Yet there _must _also be socialism. Bakunin's words flit madly through his head - though Bakunin and Marx are long dead, and the torch of revolution now belongs to the street fighters of _today. _No matter; as France once said – or rather, what France once _meant_, and Russia now realises – there is a thread of faith which ties every revolutionary together in a fragile, yet unshakeable, timeline. The thought – and their legacy – persists.

And yet. And yet the war continues. How can that be? The regime is gone, but the conflict persists; Russia feels wearier by the day, and he knows that his people are equally exhausted, worn to the bone with suffering, yet still expected to provide more strength than they possess. And it goes on.

Lenin returns halfway through the month, in a flourish of paper and rhetoric, and seizes leadership of the Bolsheviks once more. Russia finds himself drifting between various groups – but overall, he spends more time with the Mensheviks, and with the Social Revolutionaries, who are a massive presence in the Provisional Government, though it is headed by the liberal Kadet, Lvov. Suffice to say that he has little time for the Bolsheviks now – for they are decidedly negative about the new order. Russia does not have time for pessimism. He is going to put everything he can into this new beginning, this unique opportunity to start afresh and to _shape_ history rather than be enslaved by it.

Is it a socialist revolution, or simply bourgeois? Much as he tries to recollect the relevant passages of Marx, he finds he cannot tell. Various – and often conflicting – signs abound, simultaneously pointing both left and centre. The Provisional Government is overwhelmingly liberal in aims – but on the edges of his territory, away from the cities, he knows that his peasants are seizing the land which is rightfully theirs. A unique, Russian variety of socialism, then – or, at the very least, its roots.

He feels somewhat directionless. But overall it is a _good_ lack of direction. After all, in the past, he has been directed and ordered far too much, for far too long; it is nothing short of wonderful to drift...

* * *

July

And still, he is at war. Pain and fatigue is beginning to corrode his hope – he _knows _he must surrender soon, for his army can scarcely plough forwards. Why this is something the government cannot admit perplexes him in the extreme. Either they will not listen, or they will not concede to the truth – obdurately, they attempt to freeze time amidst a backdrop of progress and movement.

Bolshevik slogans tug irresistibly at the edge of his consciousness.

_Peace, bread and land._

_End the war._

_All power to the Soviets._

_All land to the peasants. _

He finds he cannot concentrate on affairs in the government. He feels like a fragile husk, starving, drained and overworked. He wonders if this is a natural consequence of revolution. The days of Tsarism seem so very distant, yet his people are not contented and neither is he. This is not a socialist revolution. They cannot even bring about peace.

Petrograd suddenly comes alive again, as millions take to the streets – peasants, workers, soldiers and sailors. Yet the feel is disjointed and a little aimless. The movement has momentum, but not enough to overcome the new status quo.

Eventually, they disband.

It is not a Bolshevik-led coup; Russia would know if it were. Lenin was out of sight the entire time. Yet the government directs the blame towards them; Lvov is replaced by Kerensky, a Social Revolutionary. Arrests are made, and Lenin leaves the country for Finland once more.

Yet the precarious feeling of instability persists, along with the dull ache of weariness.

* * *

August

Army Commander Kornilov and a failed coup. Russia can barely comprehend the details – which are, indeed, sketchy. Kornilove's march on Petrograd is quelled, but only due to the aid provided by the Petrograd Soviet.

Russia wonders if this is to be his existence from now on: uprising after uprising, with no-one ever gaining the upper hand? He feels as though he has been flung into some kind of liminal state, where he teeters on the edge of change, yet remains perpetually unsatisfied, perpetually at war.

It cannot be sustained.

Every fibre of his being cries for peace. For happiness. For strength. Kerensky fails to supply any of these. He thinks wistfully of the Bolsheviks.

* * *

October

The moment has come, as he knew it would. He was forced to the very edge of his endurance, but the uprising has occurred – a savage, inexorable wave which swept away the remainders of the old order (for it is old now, older than Tsarism in its newness) and left a clean, blank plane of land upon which, finally, new plants can flourish.

It was swift, and clean, and virtually without struggle – an almost understated coup.

The others – Mensheviks, Social Revolutionaries, Right and Centre alike – have departed in anger at the Bolshevik seizure of power. A little discomfiting, but Russia finds he almost likes it; all the remnants have flown away, leaving free, open space. Freedom and socialism. He feels oddly serene at the promise of peace, and equality, and change.

How far he has travelled! Finally, he has reached the shore – and here he rests, limp and bedraggled on the coast, but alive, and full of the promise of tomorrow.

That the leaders of the old government have been imprisoned in the Peter and Paul fortress – that old prison where Bakunin dwelled for so long, and so long ago – elicits a twinge of regret. However, Russia is accustomed to brushing small doubts aside, and he does not want anything to mar this newfound tranquillity.

"It will not last," Lenin informs him, as they stand on the balcony of the Winter Palace, hands pressed against the cold stone of the railings, eyes focussed on where the sky meets the land. "There will be struggle. We have encountered little resistance from within Russia – our support is overwhelming – but the international reaction will be frantic and violent."

Russia looks down at his splayed fingers. Then clenches them into fists. "I'll fight back, I suppose," he decides. "I'll be strong – for this. I've learned something, after all this time. If you want people to be happy, you've got to protect them. You've got to defend them with everything."

Lenin nods, slowly. "That is correct."

"It's like... a desert, the world. We drag ourselves forward, through the sand and heat, and we fight. But if we try, we can build an oasis on the outskirts of the wasteland." He likes that thought; it slides through his mind like cool, rippling water. "Or – or like a snow globe," he adds. "They pick you up, and they shake you about, but you're safe within your little capsule of calm when it's all over."

"Not only that; we will change the entire world. This is by no means over – you must understand that. I am not looking to create a single patch of utopia on an otherwise savage earth – my goal is _world_ revolution. However, it begins here. Will you agree to help me?"

Russia turns to face his new leader. "Yes," he says, wide-eyed and wondering. "I'll learn from you. Russia will learn from the Bolsheviks."

For he is more than ready to be taught.


End file.
